


If Destiny is Kind

by earthseraph, tasteslikekeys



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (Read End Note For Spoilers), Bucky Barnes Recovering, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-19 21:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14881878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthseraph/pseuds/earthseraph, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteslikekeys/pseuds/tasteslikekeys
Summary: “JARVIS?” He asks quietly, his voice cracking from disuse.“Yes, Sergeant?” JARVIS replies, not drifting from their usual script.He licks his lips, thinking for a moment. He didn’t have a question ready for JARVIS, he just wanted to hear something other than the ringing silence and his own breathing.“Tell me something true.”“You were born under the name James Buchanan Barnes,” JARVIS begins, and it almost feels like he’s being told a story, “to Winifred and George Barnes. You had one sibling, significantly younger, a little girl by the name of Becca.”(Or: The One Where Bucky Is Recovering, JARVIS Is Helping, Steve Is Moping, And Becca Is Still Alive.)





	If Destiny is Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, the RBB is done! I'm so honored to have been the author for the amazing art included in this fic. [Tastelikekeys](http://tasteslikekeys.tumblr.com/) is an amazing artist and nice human, I couldn't have asked for a better pairing! Shoutout to the Mods for setting up this whole deal and wrangling all of us.
> 
> As for my Beta's thank you to [Remi](https://needmorefiction.tumblr.com/) and [Gina](https://spacebuck.tumblr.com/) for all the plot fixing, spell checking, and cheerleading that I needed throughout this ordeal. 
> 
> Be sure to go follow everyone!!

The sheets under his hand are rough, his legs dangling over the side of the hospital bed. He stares at his socked feet, still a bit woozy from the drugs they had him on, and tries not to sway to one side. 

“You’re safe here.” He hears, the voice sounding like it’s coming from underwater, “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

He’s heard that before.

Once in a tent, the air thick with humidity, the noises of war ringing outside. Again with lights blinding him from above, the voice taunting him as a mouthguard is slipped between his teeth. Another time with an older man and promises of changing the world for the better.

“He’s been through a lot, so he might not remember you, Captain Rogers.” An accented voice says, “Shuri did her best, but sometimes that is not enough for the mind or body.”

“I understand,” the same voice from before, “but I’m not giving up on him.”

There’s more silence. 

He may have fallen asleep.

“We’ve got a room set up for you and everything.” It’s the same voice, did the person stay? “Right next to mine, just like we dreamed of growing up.”

He doesn’t remember his old dreams or wants. Does he believe this person promising him safety? Is this man planting dreams and memories that don’t belong to him in his mind as an attempt to mold him into someone he’s not? He doesn’t know. 

Eventually the man stops talking. There’s a couple beats of silence before he hears steps moving away from him, the sound of a chair dragging against the floor, and air decompressing from the seat as the man sits down. 

He slowly opens his eyes, staring at the far end of the bed, his head propped up on a pillow which he doesn’t remember doing. He notices the little grips on the bottom of his socks. A function for traction, perhaps even a way for him to constantly be heard as the grips stick and unstick from the ground. He wonders how many people had to slip on hospital floors in normal socks until someone created these. Or, how many people began bringing their own pair of sticky socks before hospitals provided them. 

It’s such a simple, airy thought, and he wants to hold onto it. When he was under Their control he wasn’t allowed to have thoughts like these. He either had his entire focus on the mission they gave him, or on the hazy feeling that he couldn’t shake. It’s almost freeing to be able to think again, even if his thoughts are about the rubber stickers on the bottom of his socks. 

He lets out slow sigh as a wave a sleepiness washes over him. Sleep was something he didn’t have either. There was never sleep, just ice, quick and dirty and painful. He welcomes the need to rest his mind, as settles back into the pillows he knows he didn’t stick under his head. 

He accepts it because he doesn’t know how long it’s going to last.

* * *

“You can explore pretty much the entire tower,” the man pauses, “except maybe the business floor, and the kitchen connected to the downstairs cafe.”

He follows the man-- _Steve_ , he reminds himself, _he asked you to call him Steve_ \-- through an empty hall of the tower. He thinks they’re in the residential chunk of the tower, but he could be wrong since everything looks the same, and as far as he can tell there’s no such thing as a directory. 

“Getting lost is pretty easy,” Steve chuckles, making his way down the hall until they stop at a window, “I don’t know how many times I got lost in these halls since I moved here, but JARVIS always helps.”

This time he looks at Steve and raises one eyebrow in question.

“That’s the voice from the ceiling.” Steve says, able to read his body language even through the years. Steve leans in close like he’s about to share a secret, “He’s everywhere and real helpful, once gave me a good recipe for a lemon cake.”

He replies in the form of a nod and looks back out the window. 

They’re dozens of floors away from the ground, the New York cityscape sprawling around them. It almost catches his breath as scans the buildings and notices all the people. There’s faint memories of a different New York, one that was shabbier and sepia toned. 

He doesn’t think he was ever given a mission in New York City. No, he would have remembered this if he was. He wonders if they had given him a mission here if it would have sparked a memory or two, if it would have broken the conditioning. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that there was a chance for him to have been free years ago, so he turns away from the window.

Steve follows his lead, quietly walking beside him, obviously enjoying sharing a moment with him. It makes him tense his shoulders and want to sink into the hoodie he has on. It’s not the fact that it’s Steve who enjoys his company, but the fact that he knows he’s nowhere near a replica of the old person he was. He doesn’t know if Steve is privy to this, or if he’s just ignorant. Either way, it’s dangerous-- he’s dangerous. 

Yes, he and Steve are almost equals in strength. Yes, they were both pumped with a version of the same serum. But they were made with different intent. Steve with the goal to protect and save, himself with the goal to kill and overthrow. He’s the corrupt version of what Steve is, and while he’s not 100% conditioned to behave that way, it’s still there. 

He will always be the Asset, and Steve will always be Captain America, there’s no changing that.

“Here’s your part of the floor,” Steve says, breaking his thoughts. 

Steve leans forward, peering into a retina scanner. A moment passes, the blue laser scans, and with a beep the door unlocks. Steve leans back and smiles at him before welcoming him into the apartment.

“You have mostly everything you need here,” Steve tells him, walking backwards with his arms wide open.

The apartment is more like a loft than anything. Everything, save for the bed and bath, is connected with open space. It’s completely equipped with sleek furniture, which comes as no surprise, and there’s floor to ceiling windows along the far wall. 

“If you need groceries and don’t want to shop for them just let JARVIS know,” Steve says walking into the kitchen, “Over there is your bed and bathroom,” Steve nods to the only doors in the loft, beside the kitchen, “and if you ever need a car just ask JARVIS for a pair of keys they’ll let you know where to get them.”

He nods, taking everything in, noting that in the event of an attack or invasion none of the exits meet his standards.

Moments of silence pass, the awkwardness evident in the air.

Steve nods back, and gives him a press lipped smile, “I’m down the hall to your left, if you need anything.” He walks to the door, hand on the handle.

Another nod.

“I’m real glad you’re here, Buck.” Steve says, his voice so soft it makes his heart ache, before opening the door, pausing for a moment, and leaving.

He lets out a slow breath, taking everything in once again.

“JARVIS?” He asks the empty room.

“How may I assist you, Sergeant?”

“Delete Steve’s retina scan from my door.”

A beat passes, “Complete. Anything else I may be of help with?”

“No,” he replies, “thank you.”

The loft falls into silence, and for once, he’s comfortable.

* * *

There’s something very addicting about “do it yourself” type shows, he decides. 

The host on the home improvement show-- a spice up from yesterday’s binge of cooking shows-- holds up two different types of molding and explains what they can do for the house. How a simple border of decorative molding can make the living room go from basic to ornate, and with the right accent color it could be the selling point for any house.

He looks up at the ceiling of the loft, and isn’t surprised when he sees zero molding. He frowns for a second before shrugging it off. Not everyone can have as good a taste in home decor as he does, and if he wants egg-and-dart molding he’ll just have to move out and install it himself. 

Which raises another question: can he move out? 

And a follow up: does he have any money to move out?

He hasn’t been living in his loft long. Fewer weeks than the amount of fingers he has, and since he lacks a left arm at the moment it shows that he really hasn’t been living here long. It’s not a bad place to live. Nobody bothers him, he can stay locked in his loft if he wants, and he has everything at his fingertips. Sure, Steve sometimes stands outside his door looking both disappointed and understanding, but other than that he’s left alone. The issue lies in the fact that this loft- this tower- none of it will ever be his. 

Many of the people living in this building don’t want him here, and since he’s hurt most of them he completely understands why they wouldn’t. So far the only one to go out of their way to give him comfort is Steve, but Steve’s version of comfort is a little stuffy and claustrophobic.

Steve wants them to be arm in arm again like they used to. He wants to wash his demons and past away with reassuring words and soft smiles. His eyes are bright with the memory of their past, and what the future holds. Right now, though, that’s not what he needs. It’s too much, too fast, and after years of living under someone’s control, conditioned to do any of their bidding, he just needs some space to breathe.

“JARVIS?” He asks the empty loft, looking up at the ceiling like JARVIS will appear in some android entity. 

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Am I allowed to move out?” He’s not itching to leave, but he’d like to know whether or not this is some comfortable way to keep him in a prison. 

“There is nothing in my system that says you cannot, Sergeant, but there is also nothing that says you can.”

He frowns at the ambiguity of it all.

“I would speak to either Misses Potts, Mister Stark, or Captain Rogers. May I assist with anything else?”

He shakes his head, “No, thank you JARVIS.”

“My pleasure.”

It dawns on him that he doesn’t have any sort of identification. Not a state ID, birth certificate, social security number, nothing. Does the world know him as the James Buchanan Barnes that once fought with the Howling Commandos? Is he the terrorist that wreaked havoc in DC? Or is he just a guy with a striking resemblance to both of those men? Nobody cared to enlighten him on those important facts, or hand him those necessary documents, and he’s not sure whether that was done intentionally or not.

He doesn’t want to talk to Steve about it, nor does he want to talk to Tony, so all who’s left is Pepper. He’s never met her, but her reputation precedes her. From what he’s heard from Steve and the people who took care of him, she’s a real spitfire that won’t take no for an answer. Maybe that’s what he needs right now. Someone that won’t coddle him, someone that doesn’t know him, and someone that will give it to him straight. 

“JARVIS, do you think you could set up a meeting with me and Pepper Potts?”

A slight hum rings in the loft, JARVIS’ thinking sound. 

“She is available for an hour at three in the afternoon tomorrow.”

“That works, thanks.” He wonders if JARVIS gave her a heads up about who he was when he asked to schedule, or if it’s just going to spring up in her calendar. Either way, tomorrow he’s going to have to leave the loft. It makes him slightly nervous, but he has questions and she has answers, so he’s going to have to overcome those nerves. 

Not now, though, he decides as he turns his attention back to the TV. The home improvement show ended, now a cookie-cutter couple is attempting to find their dream home in the villas of Italy.

* * *

He’s slightly breathless and a little ashamed by the time he gets to Pepper’s office. He’s a couple minutes late, and she’s already sitting at her desk typing away on her laptop. He doesn’t know how to address her as he lingers outside her door, so instead he just clears his throat.

Pepper looks up from her screen and gives him an inviting smile, “Sergeant, come in.” She waves him to the chairs in front of her desk, and he follows.

“Sorry for being late,” he laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head, “got lost in the tower.”

Pepper shakes her head, “No, no, you’re just fine.” She leans in like she’s telling him a secret, “I’ve lived here for years and even I still get lost.”

He smiles at her, comforted by the admission, “It’s a huge tower, with zero directory other than JARVIS.” And it’s a little embarrassing asking JARVIS for help in a hallway full of people.

“That’s Tony’s doing, he thinks it adds to the minimalism when all it adds to is people’s annoyance.”

He laughs and nods in agreeance, “If a world class spy can’t find their way around here, then who can?”

Pepper shrugs, “Only Tony, probably.” She closes her laptop and folds her hands on top of the screen, “How can I help you today?” Pepper doesn’t ask the question like she’s ripping off a bandaid, rather like she doesn’t want them to dance around what he’s there for with small talk.

He doesn’t know how to ask without being blunt, so he follows her lead, “I was wondering if I had formal identification, if I can leave the tower, and if I have any sort of money to my name?”

Pepper frowns, “Were you not told anything?”

“Nothing.”

She sighs, unfolding her hands to open her laptop once more, “You do have identification waiting to be made and printed, we’d just like to know what name you want to go by.”

He hasn’t given all that might thought to what name he wants to be called, or what he wants put on his ID. He can go by his birth name and opt for a nickname, if he wants, but he can also completely change who he is. It’s the most freedom he’s had in a long time and it makes him anxious, more than the past few days have with choosing what to eat or wear. 

“My birth name is fine.” He decides.

Pepper nods, typing something on her laptop, “As for leaving you’re always allowed to, no need to ask anyone.” She looks up from her screen, “This isn’t a prison and you aren’t a prisoner. You’re a free man, as long as you’re not committing any crimes feel free to do what you like.”

Another wave of anxiety rolls over him with the freedom that comes with being able to leave the tower, but this time it’s followed by excitement. He can explore the city, hell, the _world_ for the first time in decades without it being for a mission. If he wanted to he could probably leave the tower and never come back, head west and work on a farm, become an entirely new person.

“You also have decades of back-pay, and royalties from being used as a comic-slash-cartoon character, much more money than you could spend in a lifetime even if you bought a fancy car once a week.”

He snaps out of his daydream of leaving and never coming back to look at Pepper, “What?”

She smiles at him, it’s soft and understanding, “You can be who you want to be, where ever you want to be, and not have to worry about a thing. Just wait for your IDs to come in before making any big jumps.”

“Thank you,” he tells her with the most sincerity he can muster, “thank you so much.”

“Anytime.” Pepper replies, her smile still present.

He takes that as his cue to leave, and makes a quiet exit of her office. 

Thoughts are racing through his mind of all the things he’s finally able to do. Of the fact that now, after so long of being captive, he can live the life he’s always dreamed of living, and it makes him giddy. 

He looks to his left as if to tell someone about this, smile on his face, a syllable uttering from his lips, before realizing there’s nobody there. He frowns, mouth shutting, and looks forward. He doesn’t know why he did that, or who he would have been by his side for him to talk to, but he knows someone’s missing. There’s an inkling of a thought as to who he would have talked to in the back of his mind but he shakes it off.

Not now, he thinks, it’s too soon.

* * *

New York City is a beast to tackle. There’s different routes of travel he can take, from foot to subway to personal vehicle, so many that he doesn’t know which to pick. 

“JARVIS?” Bucky asks, frowning at the map of the subway system on his tiny phone screen. 

“How may I be of assistance?” 

He sighs and tosses his phone to the end of the couch, fuck subways. “Do I have access to any vehicles?”

JARVIS is silent for a moment, so he leans his head back on the arm of the couch and stares at the ceiling. It’s been a week or so since he got his ID, the little piece of plastic that has given him access to freedom. The first few he didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d been starved of options for so long the idea of all of them made his brain stop. He was overwhelmed to a point where he was incapable of doing anything, so much so JARVIS asked him multiple times that day if he was alive. 

“You have access to every vehicle save for the ones that fly.”

He’s quiet for a moment. He knows he can fly, he’s done it before, but that was the Asset. Besides, what does he need a flying vehicle for? “I can live with that,” He tells JARVIS, sitting up, “where do I get keys from?”

“You will have to go down to the garage, as they are all hanging in a red locker.”

His stomach flips at the thought of running into someone, but he also wants to leave. He has the urge to see water, dip his toes in the sand, and smell the salt water. All of that requires leaving the Tower, and taking a vehicle if he wants to get to a quiet beach.

With a sigh he gets up from the couch and heads to his room. If he’s going to leave the Tower, hell, his _room _, he needs to dress like an actual human rather than the shell that he feels like.__

With sufficient clothes on, he makes his way down to the garage.

There’s nobody as he walks down the hall and into the elevator, the building silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

“Would it be possible for you to take me straight down to the garage? No stops that could let anyone on?” He speaks to the closing doors, staring at his own reflection. 

“Will do, Sergeant Barnes.”

With a sigh he moves back to lean against the wall, arm stretched out against the rail. The ride isn’t long, the floors quickly lighting up at the elevator moves past them. He wonders if anyone’s waiting for an elevator, and feels bad for a moment that he’s hogging this one, but it passes quickly. He’s allowed to be selfish in this life, God knows he wasn’t allowed to be in others. 

The doors slide open with a soft _ding_ when he reaches the garage. A ball forms in his stomach at the thought of encountering anyone, but he tries to ignore it. The prospect of being able to leave the tower and explore the city is almost enough to subside the nerves. Almost.

The locker is easy to find against the concrete walls, the bright red of it the same shade of the Iron Man suit. He opens it easily, surprised that it’s not locked, and deeply appreciates whoever took the time to organize the keys into columns of what type of vehicle they belong to. 

While he would love to take a motorcycle, he kinda can’t drive it without another arm, which means he also can’t take a stick-shift, that leaves the automatic vehicles. He goes for the simple set of keys, hoping it leads him to a simple vehicle, one that won’t draw any unwelcome attention-- and frankly, any attention is unwelcome attention. 

“Buck?” A quiet, hopeful, voice asks behind him. 

The hairs on the back of his neck raise like a cat’s hackles, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has to not bolt out of the garage. Composing himself, he turns around slowly, gripping the keys tightly in his hand. 

Steve stands a couple feet in front of him, obviously giving him his space. He’s dressed for the cool weather outside, motorcycle helmet in one hand, the other casually in the pocket of his leather jacket. He doesn’t know how he didn’t hear him come in the garage, or if he just failed to notice him earlier. 

“Hey, Steve,” he says, not bothering to mask his discomfort with the situation. 

A small smile creeps to Steve’s lips, and he has to look away, “Heading out?”

He nods, “Yeah, felt like it was a good time to do all the exploring I never got to.” 

He doesn’t know why he wants to tell Steve everything that’s been running through his head, or why an invitation to join him is on the tip of his tongue. The wants he has don’t line up with the distinct feeling in his gut to run. He doesn’t know which is being impacted by versions of his old self: whether the need to be with Steve comes from Bucky, or the need to run is coming from the Asset. It’s confusing, and if he were in his apartment he’d just lay down and try and think it out. 

“It’s real different out there, I could show you around if you--”

“No.” He replies quickly. He clears his throat at the stunned look on Steve’s face and attempts to correct himself, “No, thanks. I think I need to do this on my own.”

“I understand.” Steve takes a step back, the hand not holding his helmet carding through his hair, “Take it easy, Buck.”

He nods again, watching Steve walk away from him to his motorcycle. 

He doesn’t move until Steve drives out of the garage, unconsciously holding his breath the entire time. The moment he can’t hear the motorcycle anymore he presses the unlock button on the keys, walking towards the honk that emits from the car. 

The car is a pearly white Infiniti, it’s not as discreet as he wants, but these are Stark’s vehicles and Stark isn’t a discreet person. 

He gets in the car, closing the door behind him and sighing in the comforting silence. He turns the car on, almost smiling from the freedom being able to drive a car symbolizes. 

Without hesitating, puts the car into drive and leaves the garage.

* * *

Despite the traffic, being on the road is freeing. The idea that he could leave and never come back is freeing. He considers it, for a moment, ditching the car and making his way through the states until he feels like settling down. It’s a brief thought, but not one he wants to act on. 

“JARVIS?” He’s not sure if the car’s wired to JARVIS, but it doesn’t hurt to literally ask.

“How may I help you?”

He can’t hold back the smile on his lips, happy to have JARVIS with him, “Can you get me to a beach? Somewhere quiet?”

The car’s silent as JARVIS thinks. He keeps moving through traffic, hardly letting his foot of the brake as he inches forward.

“The car is piloted to your destination, Sergeant. Please sit back and let me take the wheel.”

He complies, letting his hand off the steering wheel, slowly easing off the brake. Like nothing, JARVIS takes over, and he doesn’t even question the fact that the car is wired to be driven like this. Instead, he lets his body relax back into the seat, and watches as the city moves past him. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he was in New York City, but he has flashes in his head. Some of them seem sepia toned, weathered with time, while others are greyscale and sterile. He knows what version of him the memories belong to, and doesn’t question their validity, but it’s almost unsettling to notice the difference. 

Somewhere in between the heavy Manhattan traffic and the beach, he dozes off. He doesn’t remember his dreams, nor does he know why the police didn’t stop the car, but he also doesn’t question it. 

The car is parked, but still running as he rubs his eyes. The beach is calm in front of him, the waves pulling in and out. He can’t hear the crash from inside the car but he can imagine it. From old memories of times at the beach, and the fact that waves will always sound the same, it’s like he doesn’t even need to step out of the car. 

He takes a moment to pull himself together. Flipping down the visor mirror he pats his hair down, frowning at it for a moment before struggling through a one handed bun. The action leaves him slightly breathless, but his hair looks more respectable and less bird’s nest so it’s worth it. The clicking of the ignition is satisfying as he turns the car off, key slipping out easily into his hand. 

“Thanks, JARVIS.” He mutters to the empty car, knowing JARVIS can’t hear him. 

A brisk wind hits him the moment he opens the car door. It’s shocking, making him want to go back into the warmth of the car, but after a moment he settles into it. He doesn’t remember how the weather felt when he was _just_ Bucky. He has flashes of hot nights at the pier, toes dipped into the cool ocean water, and freezing nights inside a drafty apartment huddling under covers, a smaller person tucked close to his chest. 

It’s the opposite from his time as the Asset.

He remembers the bone cold nights stalking his kill. Laying in foxholes of stomped down snow, his body flush the freezing ground, at times snow coming down on him. He’d lay in that same position for handfuls of hours.Waiting until his task was complete, and the person was dead. It wasn’t pleasant, but he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t know he had a choice. 

Gravel crunches under his boots as he walks towards the beach. He stuffs his hand inside the pocket of his hoodie, fiddling with the car key resting there. 

The ocean is loud, roaring in his ears as he nears it. His boots leave tracks in the sand behind him. He has the urge to stop walking and remove any trace of himself that he left, but he suppresses it. Trying to accept the fact that he doesn’t need to hide himself anymore. 

He stops at the shoreline, the water lapping softly at his boots. The ocean is a beautiful beast. Vast and unforgiving, yet played in and had fun with. He could walk out into the ocean and never come back, succumb to the temptation of joining the seafloor. He knows he’d be missed, mainly by Steve, but it’s tempting to leave and never turn back. He doesn’t necessarily mean death, but leaving the tower, leaving behind this life to find one where he can become a new person. Remake himself, redefine who he is rather than have people decide based on past choices that weren’t dictated by him. 

It’s a thought that’s come up multiple times since he learned about his freedom. One he’s entertained, looking into bus tickets, finding property owners willing to give him the land for a lump of cash. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the guts to make that dream a reality, but he has the option to. 

He sits back on his haunches, slowly lowering himself to the damp sand. He ignores the fact that his butt is getting wet, and breathes in the ocean air. 

His mind isn’t racing with thoughts. Surprisingly it’s calm like the push and pull of the ocean. He times his breathing with the waves, and inhales on the rush in of the water, exhale on the soft pull out. 

There’s something about staring out to the sea that makes him want to lay out his life in front of him. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s nobody around to judge, or because the ocean seems like it would be forgiving of all the blood on his hands. It could wash the blood right off, like a baptism of sorts, and make him clean again. He knows it’s not that easy. There’s people who want him to pay for the crimes he committed, whether through the judicial system or by their own hands. There’s also people who want him to go back to the person he was before, both the brainwashed assassin and the simple boy from Brooklyn. 

He doesn’t want to be either of those people. He’s _not_ either of those people. He’s both a cluster of past identities waiting to be untangled, and a shell waiting to be filled. Figuring himself out isn’t something that can happen within a day or week. Hell, he doesn’t know if he could figure himself out within a year. There’s too much he knows and doesn’t know all running through his head at the same time. Thoughts that he doesn’t remember having, and holes within those thoughts that he can’t patch up because he just can’t remember. 

It’s confusing, and mind numbing, and most of the days that he’s been holed up in the tower all he’s wanted to do is shove his head under a pillow and never pull it back out. But even he knows that will get him nowhere. 

A few drops of rain fall on his head, they’re hard like pebbles and break him away from his thoughts. He looks up at the sky, it’s overcast but he still has to squint. More drops fall on his face, they still feel like pebbles but this time he can feel how cold they are. It sends a quick shiver down his spine, the hoodie he has on not being enough to shield him from the cold. He sits there for a few more moments, head tipped up and staring into the overcast clouds. Eventually the rain stops being coy and he’s forced to get up from his spot or risk getting soaked in cold, unforgiving rain. 

With a sigh he pushes himself up from the sand. He attempts to wipe the sand off his butt, but the water seemed to cement the grains to his pants, and all attempts are futile. 

The car isn’t warm when he gets back to it, but it’s a safe haven from the rain. He feels guilty for a moment as he sits with wet clothes in this nice car, but it passes. He takes his time turning the car on, in no rush to get back to the sterile and silent place that is his apartment. It hums to life, and he sighs, leaning back into the seat.

“How was the beach, Sergeant?” JARVIS asks without prompting. 

A small smile comes to his lips, “Good for the soul.” He’s getting used to JARVIS, and while he knows it’s just a really intelligent AI, he can’t help but feel the want to befriend it. It’s almost better that JARVIS is an AI, there’s no judgment, or fear, or expectations. It’s just JARVIS. 

“I’m pleased to hear that. Where would you like to go now?”

Reality slows him down again, and this time his sigh is tired rather than content. 

“Back to the tower, please.”

He buckles in as JARVIS reverses the car from the parking spot, and leans his head back against the rest. He knows he should look deeper into the discontent he feels at the thought of having to go back to the tower, but that’s for another day. He’s unpacked enough of his thoughts at the beach and he’s all tapped out of want to unpack anymore.

* * *

He wasn’t expecting a knock on his door at three-something in the morning, least of all from Tony Stark. 

He opens the door with a frown, unsure what he wants, “Hello?”

Stark shifts his weight from leg to leg, raising an eyebrow behind his orange tinted sunglasses, “Aren't you going to invite me in?”

“I--”

Stark pushes past him, obviously not caring whether he was considering it or not, “Like what you haven’t done to the place,” he motions to the loft, “the only thing that’s new in here is that throw blanket, and it has to be the ugliest green I’ve ever seen.”

He frowns, “I got that from _your_ gift shop.”

Stark shrugs, still eyeing everything up and down from behind his glasses, “You can blame one of Pepper’s minions for that.”

“What are you here for?” He asks, closing the door behind him, wanting Stark to get to the point so he can go back to sleep.

Stark turns and points his finger at him, “I will ignore your rudeness, and blame it on your past traumas.” 

He rolls his eyes, “I’d like to go back to sleep before sunrise.” Once the sun’s out it’s like his body knows it’s morning and he can’t make himself go back to sleep, and while he wasn’t getting the most spectacular sleep before Stark came it was sleep nonetheless. 

“Fine, fine,” Stark sighs, pulling something black out of his pocket, “I noticed how much you used JARVIS, so I thought you’d like a something with him on it.”

The object is tossed to him, and it’s only when it’s in his hands that he realizes it’s a watch. 

“Helps me sometimes,” Stark goes on, “when my brain doesn’t want to cooperate with me. JARVIS knows a couple breathing exercises, can alert your emergency contact if you need it.”

Moving past the fact that Stark seems to check up on him, he’s a little touched. He’s gotten so used to JARVIS being in the Tower and car that he didn’t even think about what he’d do in places without them. 

“Thank you,” he tells Stark with as much sincerity he can conjure in his voice, “I don’t-- just, thank you.”

Stark nods, looking around the loft again before walking to the door. He pats him on the shoulder, “Don’t let your own thoughts get to you too much”

He nods in response, and lets Stark leave without looking back. 

The slips nicely on his wrist, Stark obviously took his disability into mind, and for a moment he holds it to his chest. He forgot sometimes people could be good without wanting anything in return.

* * *

“White Wolf, how are you doing?” Shuri asks, setting a black box on the bed next to him.

He shrugs his shoulders in response, “As well as I can be.”

“Well,” She smiles up at him, brilliant and excited, “maybe this will make your day better?” She unlatches the locks on the box, and pushes the lid back revealing a matte black arm with golden accents, “It’s made completely of Vibranium-- so it’s very light weight-- and can easily attach to the shoulder cap I designed. You shouldn’t feel any pain, it shouldn’t pinch, but it is a prototype that I will update as ideas come to me.” 

The arm is beautiful, obviously very hightech and evident that she put multiple hours of work into it, “I can’t accept this,” he tells her honestly, “I don’t deserve an arm like that.” An arm at all, he doesn’t say. 

Shuri snorts, lifting the arm out of the box, “If I didn’t think you deserved it I wouldn’t have made it.” She rubs her thumb against a non-existent scratch, “Look, Mister Barnes, if you truly do not want the arm I will not force it on you, but if you don’t want it out of some form of..” she pauses and looks up to the ceiling, taking a moment to think, “self flagellation, then I won’t allow that.”

“Can I hold it?” He asks instead of replying, holding his right hand out.

She places it in his hand by the elbow and he’s surprised at the lightness of it. He remembers having mechanical issues with his other arm, how sometimes it would stop functioning and fall limp at his side. He would be lugging around the dead weight of metal that had to weigh multiple times the amount of his human arm. This, though, has to weigh less than fifteen pounds. It’s not a hollow weight, either, it’s just the wonders of Vibranium. 

“This is the first of my design for veterans and those who are disabled,” Shuri says quietly, “I’d like to make them inexpensive, but functional, lacking the need for tune ups and expensive appointments.” 

“How are you going to test them?” He asks, genuinely curious. He wishes he could be back at her lab right now. While he wasn’t in his best state of mind when he was recovering there, remembers being intrigued with everything she was doing. It was a caliber of technology he’d never seen before, not even while he was an Asset. HYDRA had tech, but theirs was sloppily put together and dirty, Shuri’s was pure and every last detail was paid attention to. 

“Well, I was hoping you’d be the first trial.”

He looks up at her, surprised, “Me?”

She nods, “Not to guilt you, but if you still want the arm you’d technically be the helping every other person with your type of impairment.”

If he tells himself he’s doing this for other people, maybe, just _maybe_ he could not feel guilty about having it. 

“So taking this arm would be beneficial for others rather than just myself?”

Shuri grins, understanding where he’s going with it, “Definitely.”

He looks at the arm and nods, “I’ll do it then.”

The smile on Shuri’s face is almost blinding, “Yes! I’ll check up on you frequently to see how the arm’s going, and you can always call me if it malfunctions, it’s also easily...”

He tunes her out, not because he doesn’t want listen to her, but because he’s getting an arm. Yes, he had one before but it was tainted with blood and horrors that he can’t even recall. This arm has none of that. It was made by Shuri, who has to be the kindest person he knows, and intended to be the first of many for people with disabilities similar to his. He’s so grateful he doesn’t know what to do. 

This arm could turn a new page for him, mentally. 

“Thank you.” He tells her, interrupting. 

Shuri smiles back at him, “No problem, let’s get this on you.”

* * *

Today he feels like the weather. Dark, dreary, an annoyance to the world. The clouds are grey and low along the cityscape, they’re heavy with rain that hasn’t fallen, threatening anyone that dare leave their house without an umbrella. 

He’s lying stretched out along the couch, staring at the ceiling above him. The loft is silent save for his breathing, the quietness almost hurts to listen to, like he can hear a slight ringing despite it not being there. He sighs softly, and it’s more of a long exhale rather than a deep sigh. 

He’s been feeling off since he got his new arm.

Shuri, of course, made it perfectly for him. Each plate and hinge works flawlessly. The arm fits snugly into his shoulder cap, it moves when he wants it to, and the weight doesn’t throw off his center of gravity. He expected nothing less than the high amount of kindness and ingenuity she placed into the piece of tech. 

None of that seems to matter, though. He hurts where his arm used to be and he can’t stop it. It’s an annoying pain, like an itch he can’t scratch underneath layers of clothes. He’s been told that scratching his fake arm might trick his brain, but after scratching so much the black paint should have chipped had it not been vibranium he gave up. There’s no tricking his brain, it knows the arm shouldn’t be there, and _he_ knows he doesn’t deserve it. 

He’s grateful he has another arm, and knows it’ll make his life much easier. He knows Shuri gave it to him out of the kindness of her heart because he wouldn’t dare ask for something like this. He also knows Steve is over the moon for him, the wide smile on his face evident of that. But all that combined doesn’t make his guilt easier to suppress. Instead it makes it worse, and leaves him with days like today where it seems like there’s nothing he can do but stare at the ceiling. 

“JARVIS?” He asks quietly, his voice cracking from disuse. 

“Yes, Sergeant?” JARVIS replies, not drifting from their usual script. 

He licks his lips, thinking for a moment. He didn’t have a question ready for JARVIS, he just wanted to hear something other than the ringing silence and his own breathing. 

“Tell me something true.”

JARVIS doesn’t reply quickly, and he understands. It’s a loaded question, one with an infinite amount of answers. He doesn’t know what he expects to hear, he doesn’t know what he _wants_ to hear.

“You were born under the name James Buchanan Barnes,” JARVIS begins, and it almost feels like he’s being told a story, “to Winifred and George Barnes. You had one sibling, significantly younger, a little girl by the name of Becca.”

The memory hits him like a wave, pulling him under in an encompassing way that he’s never felt before.

The scent of corn husks in the sun are indistinguishable. The sound of a young girl’s laughter fills his ears, and he can feel himself running. His lungs are burning like the sun above him, but this time the running isn’t for his life or after someone else’s. This time he’s running for fun. He can feel the stalks of corn hit him as he runs past, laughter escaping his own lips because the thrill of running through their neighbor’s farm is too much to suppress. He knows he’s said something to the little girl but he doesn’t remember what, and remembering those specific words is like grasping at thin air. Eventually, he stops pretending a toddler can outrun him and he catches up to her. He grasps her tiny hand, pulling her towards his body as he throws himself on the ground. The little girl laughs, brilliant and toothless, and the corn stalks rattle around them as the wind passes through.

He sucks in a sharp breath as he comes out of the memory. His heart is racing, the throbbing of the beats audible between his ears. He doesn’t know if any of his memories have been that vivid. Sure he’s had a nightmare or two that woke him with sweat soaked clothes and a scream that ripped his throat, but a memory this pure, this good, has never come to him that clear. He could smell the corn, and feel the tiny hand in his own. He could feel the joy and laughter, both of which are emotions that are almost foreign to him. All of which was triggered by one name: Becca.

JARVIS has stopped talking, no doubt taking note of his shock. 

“Is she alive?” It’s the first question that came to mind, and he doesn’t know if he wants the answer.

JARVIS emits a thoughtful hum, filling the space with the low sound. He sits up on the couch, one arm pushing himself up. He pushes his hair back with the other, already used to the fact that he has two capable arms. 

“Yes,” JARVIS replies, “it seems that she still lives at your childhood home in Shelbyville, Indiana.”

He doesn’t know what to do with the information. 

His sister, the only thing he has connected to the past other than Steve, is still alive. She doesn’t know what he’s done, the crimes he’s committed, or the fact that he’s still alive. Not only that, but his childhood home still stands. The place he lived before Brooklyn, before Steve, before anything that he’s expected to be now. It could piece together things he’s forgotten through the decades and mind wipes. It could be his chance to learn who he truly is. 

“How long is a drive from Manhattan to Shelbyville?”

“Eleven hours without traffic.”

He could go now. He could drive there, without a wink of sleep, and drive back by tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t need to see her, or go into the house, no. But he could go, nobody’s stopping him from leaving. 

He doesn’t say anything to JARVIS as he gets up from the couch. He makes quick work of an overnight bag: fresh undergarments, deodorant, some protein bars, bottles of water, and a battery pack for his phone. He stuffs the essentials like his phone and wallet into his jean pockets, and stops at the door. 

If he takes a car there’s no doubt he’ll be tracked. He could always rent a car, there’s also stealing but he’s not about to put someone out when he has the funds to buy a brand new vehicle. 

There’s also the fact of whether or not he’s coming back. 

He turns around to look at the loft. He doesn’t have an emotional attachment to anything here. There’s nothing that could make him stay, except JARVIS but ever since Tony gave him that watch he doesn’t need the apartment to connect to the AI. 

There is Steve, he reasons to himself, but even then he’s engulfed with guilt when he’s around Steve. Sure, Steve has never tried to mold him into the person he used to be, but he _knows_ that’s what Steve wants from him. Why else would Steve want a haunted, damaged ex-assassin? There’s no other reason Steve went at the lengths he did to save him from a life of homelessness or prison than to get the man he knew back. None that he can think of, at least. 

With that, he opens the door leading to the hallway and walks away without looking back.

* * *

Getting a rental car was easier than he imagined. A couple forms, valid license, some money and here he is. In an unassuming, gas saving, silver Kia. It’s not as lavish as the one in the tower, but with JARVIS on his wrist, and the GPS open on his phone he doesn’t need anything else.

His first task is getting out of New York. 

Thrill bubbles in his stomach as he drives down the highway. He keeps checking his mirrors, making sure he’s not being followed, but past the paranoia and fear all he feels is excitement. He doesn’t remember completely leaving a place on his own will when he was Bucky or the Asset, so there’s a chance that this is his first time making a decision like this for himself. 

Yeah, he’s still uncertain whether he’s going back but the fact that he can keep driving forever is enough. He can keep going until he meets the West Coast, then turn around and touch a different part of the East. This is a freedom he’s never had before, one he feels in his bones that he’s dreamed of. 

He remembers the humidity of summer, and a hot fire escape beneath his thighs. He remembers sweat dripping down his neck, and overwhelming heat from the shoulder touching his but not wanting to move away from it. Promises of going west were said into the night, dreams of more food and a paycheck they could be comfortable on clouding his mind. He remembers wishing he could be like all those other people who packed their bags, jumped on a train, and began their journey towards something better. When instead he was trapped in a malnourished city, breaking his back to make ends meet. Sending money to his family while trying to take care of himself and-- Who did he take care of? 

If the memory were a taste it would be on the tip of his tongue. He remembers thin wrists and pink lips, holding them to his chest in the winter, their bare bodies touching with blankets surrounding them. Medication upon medications, no matter the season but worse in the spring and summer. But who? Who did he leave behind? Through the war, the Asset, and wipes upon wipes of his memory who did he forget? Who did _they_ not tell him about? Who did Steve--

“Sergeant, your blood pressure is rising quite quickly. Shall we go through a breathing routine?”

JARVIS’ voice pulls him out of the memory. He takes in a deep and shaky breath, easing his foot off the gas, and peeling his human hand off the steering wheel. 

“No, JARVIS, thank you.”

He knows he could ask JARVIS. There has to be some documentation of a spouse in his records. Does he want to know, though? Does he really want to know the person his brain allowed himself to forget? To be told of someone his past self loved so dearly, but his present self can’t even remember the face of. 

No. He doesn’t want to know. The guilt would consume him, and he already has too much of that. 

With another inhale and exhale, he adjusts his hands on the steering wheel and focuses on the road ahead of him. Ten more hours and he’ll be there.

* * *

When the ‘low fuel’ light turns on he knows it’s time to take a break from driving. 

He’s been on the road over five hours now. Most of it has been in silence with total focus on the road rather than his old love. Some of it was talking with JARVIS, asking inane things about when certain road signs came into law or what stars were visible tonight. JARVIS replied to everything with their trademark monotone voice, that despite being flat always seems interested in the conversation. 

The gas station he stops at is nondescript with one bored attendant at the cash register. 

The sound of the display screen on the lottery machines and the buzz of the fridges fill the shop. The cashier is a young twenty-something, one headphone in with the other dangling around their neck, phone in hand as they watch something. 

He doesn’t dally around the store and waste either of their time, preferring to get in and out, and back on the road as soon as he can. He knows the kid doesn’t care about what he’s doing, and doesn’t recognize him from any part of the mess he caused in DC, so there’s no reason for him to buy things he doesn’t need in order to attempt to look “normal”.

“Fifty on number two,” He tells the cashier, sliding the money under the transaction window not using card because what if they track him. 

The cashier nods once, breaking the hundred and sliding back the cash, “Have a good evening.”

The door jingles as he walks out of it, back into the fresh winter air of Pennsylvania. He makes quick work of unscrewing the tank cap, and sticking the nozzle in, some sort of muscle memory guiding him through the motions. 

“Hey, JARVIS?” He asks, leaning against the car with his arms crossed.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Will it snow in Indiana soon?” 

“No time soon, Sergeant.”

He nods in response, not knowing whether he wanted it to snow or not. He knows of both good and bad memories associated with snow, but he thinks he’d like to make new memories surrounding it. Either good ones, or something in the middle ground, but no bad ones. He’s got enough bad memories to last him multiple lifetimes. 

He has hope that this time around, with the new person he is, that most of his memories would be good ones. That instead of suffering the way he did through his childhood, adulthood, and time as the Asset he can just live comfortably. He has the means to, what with more money than he can imagine using, and the personal agency to do whatever he wants with it. If he can get his mental state on the right track, maybe stop the constant nightmares, he could cultivate that comfortable life he’s been dreaming of. 

The click of the gas pump signals its stop. He pushes himself away from the car and goes through the motions of replacing the pump and closing the tank. 

Once the car door closes behind him, he’s grateful to be back in the silence of the car. After spending more than five hours on the road the car has become a familiar, comfortable space for him. 

With a content sigh he turns the key in the ignition. Only five more hours to go.

* * *

Rather than lurking outside of Becca’s house at an ungodly time of night like his instincts are telling him to do, he decides to stay at a motel. 

The room isn’t too shabby. There’s water stains on the ceiling, and the bed sheets smell like they haven’t been used in years, but it’s warm and more comfortable than his six foot frame trying to sleep in the tiny Kia.

With a sigh, he kicks his shoes off and lays back on the bed. The room is silent aside from an occasional passing car, and the clock ticking on the wall. Unlike the tower where silence bothered him, and was too loud for his thoughts, this silence is almost refreshing. It’s giving his mind a moment to just relax, and breathe through what’s happened to him, which is something he hasn’t been able to properly do before. 

He went from the Asset, to a confused and empty shell, to a more confused but less empty shell. From being controlled without knowledge by HYDRA, to having more free will than he knows what to do with. All in the span of a couple months. It hasn’t even been a year since DC and so much has changed in his life. 

He’s grateful for most of the change, he really is, but being away from the sterile air of the tower, and from people that expect one thing or another from him is refreshing. He hasn’t even been in this motel an hour and he feels more relaxed than he did in the all the time he was at the Tower. The mind is a weird thing, but he’s not going to question it. 

Tomorrow he’s going to go by his childhood home. He’s going to be able to take everything in for the first time in decades, and while he knows it’s going to look different, he also knows that no matter what it’s still his first home. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets there, whether it’s going to be a quick drive by or if he’s going to linger, but all that can be decided in the morning. 

Right now, with his body warm and melding into the springy bed, it’s time for sleep.

* * *

The house isn’t what he expected. It’s not worn down, with paint chipping off the trim, or a broken gutter system. The grass isn’t overgrown, nor is the corn dead. Instead the house is a pleasant powder blue, the white trim crisp and clean. The house is surrounded with corn, but the grass is green and there’s what looks like a garden patch out in the far corner. 

He doesn’t exactly remember the house, so he can’t say for sure whether this is exactly what it looked like decades ago. He does know this is home, though. There’s a feeling in his gut telling him this is where he needs to be right now, and if he were any other place it would just feel wrong. 

From the moving curtain visible in the front window he knows his stopped car is raising some eyebrows, even if it is a Kia. He doesn’t know what to do. He could leave, go back to his motel, and deal with not following his gut, or he could stay and knock on the front door. Both options lead him down paths he doesn’t necessarily want to take. Either going home, or staying and returning to Becca’s life like nothing ever changed. Except, everything changed and he’s closer in personality to the Asset than he is his old self. It’s been years since he’s seen Becca, though, at the very least seventy of them. He doesn’t expect her to remember the exact man he was then, but he also doesn’t want to reappear in her life only to disappoint her. 

There’s also that fact, what state of health is Becca in? She has to be going on ninety, and while he’s technically a-hundred-something his body is that of a late twenty year old. His genetics were screwed with by science, just like Steve’s, and unless someone was handing knock off super serum shots to all the Buchanans, she can’t be in perfect condition. Does he want to deal with that? Meeting someone from his past only for them to leave before he’s ready? On the other hand, how would he deal with her dying before he got to see her again? 

“JARVIS, I don’t know what to do.”

“The easiest route is always in front of you, Sergeant.”

He rolls his eyes, just like JARVIS to be unhelpful in a situation where he needs all the help he can get.

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, biting his bottom lip in concentration. After a moment, and another movement of the curtains, he turns off the car and takes his keys out of the ignition. He takes in a shaky breath as he steps out of the car, butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach for the first time in years. 

Thankfully, the gate blocking him from the house is only closed with a simple latch that he can easily lift up. The door to the house opens before he gets to the porch, and an older woman comes out. He knows it’s not Becca, but she shares her features. A daughter, he guesses. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, knowing full and well that he’s a random stranger that poses a threat in her eyes. 

“Is Becca home?” He asks, not knowing where to start. 

The woman frowns, and steps forward so the screen door closes behind her, “And who are you?”

He chuckles and scratches the back of his head with one hand. He knows this woman isn’t going to believe him since he’s supposed to be dead, but there’s no other way to explain who he is than the truth, “Her brother.”

The frown deepens, and he feels like if she had a shotgun it would be cocked and pointed at him, “Sir, I don’t know what game you’re playing but I’m going to have to ask you to step off the property.”

He raises both his hands, hoping it’s a sign of peace to her, “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth.”

“I will call the police.”

He figures Steve or the like will bail him out, so he keeps going, “Did she ever tell you she knew Captain America?”

This time the frown isn’t of fear or anger, but like she was surprised.

“Or about the brother that died in war and never came home?” 

“She--”

The screen door pushes open, hitting the woman in the back until she moves. 

A small woman hobbles out. She’s in a long dress that almost touches the floor, her white hair pulled up in two braids crowning her head, “What in God’s name is going on here?” 

Her voice is the same, but worn with age. It’s like the sun on a cool morning, like dew on flowers in the summer. It wraps him in a blanket of warmth, and familiarity, so much that he can’t help but feel choked up.

He smiles, swallowing the lump in his throat, “Hi, Becca, it’s your brother.”

She stops next to the younger woman and frowns, hands coming to her hips, “Well I’ll be damned.” She mutters, before grabbing the other woman’s arm and motioning to the steps. 

He waits for her to come to him, lowering his arms as she get closer. It’s almost surreal seeing her at this age when his last memory of her was when she was a child. He doesn’t remember the last time he saw her in person, whether it was before his deployment, or after leaving home. He knows there was no money for anything but taking care of his family, himself, and his lover, but does that mean her last memory of him was when he was a teenager? Has it been too long for the both of them?

Becca stops in front of him, almost a foot shorter and peering up at his face. She doesn’t ask before placing her cold, weathered hands on his face, cupping his cheeks. She turns his head to one side, then the other, and he lets her. He doesn’t expect the sting of a slap that comes to his face, and looks down at her in surprise. 

“It’s been more than seventy damn years, Bucky! Where the hell have you been?” 

He opens and closes his mouth, speechless and not knowing how to reply. 

“Do you know how long I waited for you? Do you know how much hope I had when I saw Steve coming out of that ice?”

He clears his throat, pulling his thoughts together, “It’s a long story.”

Becca crosses her arms in front of her chest, “It better be a good one, then.”

She turns slowly, and tugs on the arm of the woman next to her. They start walking to the porch, leaving him in the middle of sidewalk unsure what to do. She stops walking and turns around, raising an eyebrow, “Well are you coming?”

* * *

The house is warm when he steps in. The floors are wooden, the walls an off white, and frames line the them. He follows them into the kitchen where Becca sits in front of a coffee mug and motions for him to follow. 

He awkwardly pulls out a chair, shaking his head when the other woman motions to the coffee pot.

“This is Rachel,” Becca says after a long sip of coffee, “my oldest daughter.”

He gives Rachel a small smile and a nod of his head, “Nice to meet you.”

Rachel sits down next to Becca and sighs, “Likewise.”

“So,” Becca starts, “where have you been?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, “It’s--”

“Complicated, you said that.” She rolls her eyes, taking a sip from her mug, “Care to make it uncomplicated for the sister who hasn’t seen you in _decades_? You know, I thought Steve woulda’ tracked me down all these years he’s been around but he never did.”

“I can’t speak for Steve,” He starts before pausing, he’s never told anyone story. Most of the people he existed around knew everything from reading his file, and JARVIS doesn’t need to be told since they’re all-knowing. He’s never even said the story out loud to himself, “but I can speak for myself.”

His stomach is tied in knots, and he wishes he took that mug of coffee so he had something to do with his hands other than lace and unlace his fingers. 

“During the war I fell and some of the bad guys found me.” He begins, not going into details partly because Becca doesn’t need to know and because he doesn’t remember everything, “They did a version of what they did to Steve on me, gave me a new arm, and...” he trails off, this time making his hands into fists, clenching down hard, “... wiped my memory.” 

He chooses not to mention the torture, the shocks to his skull, the words they used to flip the switch in his brain that turned him into the Asset, “Then they made me do bad things, and if I wasn’t committing some sort of crime I was kept frozen.”

“Which is why you look so young?” Becca asks.

He shrugs a shoulder, “A mix of that and whatever drug they gave me to make me like Steve.”

She nods, and he continues.

“My last assignment was to kill Steve, but somehow-- and I don’t know how-- he broke that programming.” It’s something he’ll always be grateful for, but knows that Steve will never accept his thanks.

“Do you think it was your love for him?”

That brings a halt to his thoughts. He looks up at her, eyebrows pinched, “What?”

Becca snorts, “Oh don’t act like you don’t remember telling me that you Steve were lovers. Besides, it’s legal now.”

He sputters for a moment, “ _What_?”

Becca rolls her eyes, “Dumb isn’t a good look on you, Bucky.”

“Mom,” Rachel pipes in, “I don’t think he remembers that.”

It’s like a light went off in his brain and everything came together. Thin wrists belonged to thin arms, attached to the slight frame of Steve before the serum. Pink lips went with floppy blond hair that still exists on the Steve he knows today. Hot afternoons were spent on the fire escape, only their shoulder touching since someone could see. Some nights were hotter with skin touching skin and hot breath ghosting along necks. Winter and spring were the enemy, what with Steve’s illnesses and allergies, and all spare money they had went to saving up for Steve’s next appointment. 

“Sergeant, perhaps a breathing exercise will help you to regain a natural flow of breath?” JARVIS asks, coming in right when he’s needed most.

He takes in a deep breath on JARVIS’ command, eyes wide looking at Becca whose eyes must be wider, slowly exhaling until his heart slows and lungs cooperate with him. 

“Buck,” Becca says softly, resting her hand atop his, “are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize--”

He cuts her off, shaking his head, “It’s not your fault, the randomest thing sets off my brain.”

“So you didn’t know that?”

He shakes his head.

“And Steve didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he sighs, “failed to mention it.” He doesn’t know why Steve didn’t tell him but it could be one of two things: One, Steve didn’t want to pressure him into something that might not exist anymore. Two, Steve doesn’t feel the same way and is hoping he never remembers. While it’s most likely the former, he can’t help but linger on the latter.

“What an idiot,” she squeezes his hand, “and where is he now?”

“Back where I lived before.” Becca’s hand is a comforting one on his, and he can’t help but want her to leave it there for as long as possible. It’s familiar, and loving, two things he hasn’t felt together in a long time. 

“When you’re ready,” Becca starts, leaning forward so she can look into his eyes, “and if you want to, I’d like you to call him here. Both so I can see him, and so you two can maybe become a thing again.” She grins, shrugging a shoulder, “Think of it as a dying wish.”

“Mom!” Rachel yells, “Don’t joke like that.”

Becca rolls her eyes, leaning back, “I’m not a spring chicken, and I don’t have magical juices in my system like he does. We all know I’m gonna’ kick it eventually, and the sooner we accept it the easier it’ll be when the day comes.”

Rachel rolls her eyes, mirroring her mom.

“Are you?” He asks, “Dying, I mean.”

Becca sighs, patting his hand, “Docs haven’t been sure why I’m still alive. Got a bad heart, and age is cruel to the body, but it’s like my soul has been waiting for something. After my husband died I thought I was going to kick it next, but it’s been over ten years and I’m still here.” She smiles wistfully, “I think I was waiting for you, Buck. I think my soul knew you were still out there and wasn’t ready to go until I got to see you. I hope it gives me more time to be with you, but ninety-something years have been more than enough life for me.”

He turns his hand over so it’s holding hers, “I’ll be here as long as you want me, even if it’s ten more years.” He means it. This is his baby sister, and while he doesn’t feel all the emotions that should come with being the brother of a dying sibling, he knows they’re not too far around the corner for him. 

She squeezes his back and sniffs, obviously emotional, “Come on, need to give you a tour of the old place.”

* * *

After the tour, he decides some air is needed. 

He makes his way down the road for a moment, before pausing because he has no clue where he’s going.

“JARVIS, take me to somewhere to think.”

He’s led down the street, then up a hill, “This was the only piece of public property I could find in close proximity to Becca’s.”

He sits down on the hill, legs spread out in front of him, arms propping him up from behind. The hill isn’t too high, but it’s tall enough that he can see over the corn and past Becca’s. It’s refreshing to be at a distance from everything, and quite literally alone with his thoughts.

A lot’s happened in the past couple hours. He met his baby sister, whom he hasn’t seen in decades, who is also dying. He then found out Steve, the person he’s been avoiding since day one, was the person he loved the most. 

And that’s where he’s getting tripped up. 

His old self loved Steve so much the memory of the feeling stuck around through all the trauma and torture. Him, though, in the present moment, doesn’t know what to feel. He hasn’t spent enough time with Steve to know whether or not he still has any sort of emotions for him. He also doesn’t know whether or not Steve still feels the same way. Steve’s been awake longer than he has, and for all he knows Steve has a romantic interest that he doesn't know about. 

There’s so many what if’s in his situation that he doesn’t know what to do. 

“JARVIS, do we have Steve’s number?”

“Yes, shall I dial it?”

“Yeah, please.” The butterflies are back, and they’re wreaking havoc in his stomach. He knows why he’s nervous, and it’s a perfectly reasonable emotion for him to be having, but he doesn’t like it. He tries to reason with himself, it’s just Steve he’s calling, but it doesn’t help. It’s not _just_ Steve, it’s never been. In the Tower Steve was the person who saved him, and the one he avoided because there may be expectations he could never live up to. Then before, in his past life, Steve was apparently the person he risked prosecution for, the person he loved. 

“Bucky!” Steve answers, his voice small as it comes out of his watch, “Are you okay? Where are you?”

He ignores the butterflies, clearing his throat to have an even voice, “I’m at Becca’s, in Indiana.”

“Oh, that’s good. How is she--”

“-- She’s dying.” He interrupts, “Not right now, but soon, and wants to see you.”

Steve is silent for a moment, the news probably shocking, “I’ll be there soon.” Steve replies, it’s stoic, and cold like the voice he uses when he’s Captain America. 

He doesn’t say anything, just lets another wave of silence pass before Steve eventually hangs up. The butterflies are still there, but this time they’re coupled with a tinge of sadness for his sister’s road to passing on, and fear for what there is to come between him and Steve. 

He lets out a rough sigh and lays back on the grass, staring up at the cloudless sky above him. There’s nothing he can do now except wait.

* * *

“How did you keep the house?” He asks, looking around the living room. 

He and Becca are sitting together on the couch, Becca with her head against his shoulder trying to fight sleep until Steve comes. 

“Married rich,” she chuckles, “he was a good man, but couldn’t quit smoking so his lungs quit him.”

He smiles, thankful that Becca had a good life as she aged, “And your kids?”

“Three of them, all married, all with little brats.”

“All from the same dad?” He grins, teasing.

Becca elbows him in the ribs, “ _Yes_ , I may have fooled around a bit but once he stuck a ring on my finger I stayed loyal.”

“What happened to mom and dad?”

Becca sighs, leaning back into him, “Both died of old age. First dad went, then mom.”

He feels a little sad at that, but it’s not like he expected anything different, “Were they comfortable?”

Becca nods, “Yeah, as comfortable as I could make them. They’re buried here, in the same cemetary that I’ll be in.”

“Maybe I’ll go see them,” he says quietly, “do you really think your time is coming to an end?”

“I do, Buck,” she leans her head next to his, “I’m sorry you came into my life only for me to leave soon.”

He shakes his head before leaning it on top of hers, “Don’t apologise, it’s neither of our faults.” He could get angry, point fingers at everyone whose fault it is, but that would be wasting what precious time he has left with Becca. 

“I know, I just wish you didn’t have to go through what you did.” Becca’s voice is upset, “Wish you coulda just lived your life like the rest of us.”

“Me too, but maybe I’m here, like this now, for a reason.” He doesn’t know if it’s true, and he doesn’t like the quote ‘everything happens for a reason’, but there has to be some explanation for why fate or powers that be decided he needed to be here in this moment. 

“Gay marriage is legalized,” Becca jokes, “you and Steve could finally get hitched,”

He sighs, remembering _that_ little tidbit of information, “I just found that part of my life out, remember.”

“You gonna do anything about it?”

He shrugs, both of their heads moving with the motion, “Don’t know how I feel about him yet.”

“Well don’t force it,” Becca yawns, “and wake me up when he gets here.”

He closes his eyes when he feels Becca lull into sleep, and matches his breathing with hers. He’s not sure if it’s the warmth of another person, their synced up breathing, or all the new pieces of information he had to process today, but without fuss his body relaxes into the couch and lets him fall asleep.

* * *

Instead of jumping out off the couch at the sound of knocking on the screen door he slowly opens his eyes. He must have remembered that Becca fell asleep next to him and didn’t want to throw her off the couch with his flailing body. 

He gets up slowly, gently moving Becca to rest her head against the couch pillows, and tries not to step on a creaky floorboard as he makes his way to the door. Butterflies are back in his stomach at full swing, so much that he feels nauseous, but he tries to suppress them. This is just Steve, he doesn’t need to be nervous for Steve.

He slowly opens the front door, and there on the porch stands Steve. He’s ruffled looking, hair out of place, a hoodie on instead of his brown leather jacket, and he actually looks tired. The smile that comes to his face isn’t completely honest, but there is some contentment there. He doesn’t know, but maybe Steve’s happy to see him. 

“Hey,” Steve’s says quietly, not moving from his spot on the porch. 

He opens the screen door, stepping out and closing both doors behind him, “Hi,” he replies, not sure what to say.

Steve’s small smile stays on his face, “How is she?”

He shrugs, “Ready to die,” he says honestly, “says she was waiting for me.”

This time Steve’s lips twitch down, almost to a frown, “And how are you?”

“I’m...” He trails off, because he truly doesn’t know. He’s the best he’s been mentally, at a place that he wished he could have been in Manhattan, but he’s also sad because Becca’s going to leave soon. His feelings are tangled when they come to Steve, and he can’t help but notice the lack of distance between them on the porch. While they’re both large men, the porch is larger, and he knows he could take a step back to put some distance between them, but he doesn’t want to. He hasn’t been in a place where he felt this comfortable both speaking and being next to Steve, and he doesn’t want to lose that. 

“I’m okay,” he finally answers, “the best I’ve been.”

“That’s good,” and this time Steve’s smile is completely genuine, “I’m happy to hear that Buck--” Steve cuts himself off, frowning for a moment, “I never asked, do you go by Bucky?”

That’s a question he’s never been asked other than by JARVIS who did it out of necessity. It’s one he’s asked himself, sure, but he never came to a conclusion on it. He does like ‘Bucky’ it reminds him of better times, and of Becca. ‘James’ has always felt too serious, too official, and there’s nothing else he could go by. 

“Yeah, I do. What else would I go by?” He makes his reply short and simple, Steve doesn’t need to know the inner workings of his brain right now. 

The smile is back, toothy and confident, “Then I’m definitely happy to hear that _Bucky_.”

Hearing Steve say his name like that send a chill down his spine, and makes a small smile curl on his lips. He wants to say something about what Becca told him, about the pieces of memory that came back to him, but he also doesn’t want to mess up anything for either of them. 

They both stand there for a moment. Dopey smiles on their faces, the winter chill not bothering either of them. Half of him wants to close the distance between them, press his lips to Steve’s and feel something right out of the past. The other half wants to curl back into his own mind, and keep himself safe from any potential harm. It’s a tug of war, and unfortunately the latter’s winning. 

“Want to see her?” He asks, taking a step back from Steve.

Steve nods, “Yeah, God knows it’s been forever.”

They walk in the house together, Bucky shutting the doors softly behind them. He leads Steve to the living room where instead of Becca on the couch it’s Rachel. 

“She asked to go to her room, sorry.” Rachel looks worse for wear, dark circles under her eyes, hair in a messy ponytail. 

Steve shakes his head, “No, no, I understand.” He extends his hand to Rachel, “Steve Rogers.”

She takes it, “Rachel. She always talked about you, but we never knew whether she was telling the truth.”

Steve chuckles, “The complete truth. I was basically family,” his eyes flick to Bucky before going to Rachel, “Becca was like the little sister I never had.”

Rachel smiles, pushing herself up from the couch, “I made up rooms for both of you, if you’ll follow.”

Their rooms are upstairs, across from each other. Rachel leaves them with a purse lipped smile, her eyes flicking between them before leaving for her own room. Like before on the porch they awkwardly stand in front of each other, Steve rocking on his heels and Bucky staring everywhere but Steve’s face. 

“Well, goodnight.” Steve says after a moment, breaking the silence.

Bucky finally looks up at Steve, thankful that Steve made the first move, “Night.”

He doesn’t move until Steve goes into his own room, taking a moment to just breathe in the hallway.

It’s been a hell of the day, but Bucky doesn’t know if he’d change it for anything.

* * *

Bucky sleeps in through the next day, it’s not until JARVIS’ voice comes out of his watch that he finally opens his eyes.

“-- almost noon, Sergeant, are you feeling well?”

He tries to blink away the haze of sleep, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of his bed, “What time is it?”

“Eleven forty three,” JARVIS replies, “are you feeling well?”

Bucky nods, “Yeah, I just haven’t slept this well in what feels like forever.”

JARVIS doesn’t respond, and Bucky doesn’t need him to. 

He quickly does his proper hygiene, before heading downstairs to the sound of Steve and Becca laughing. They’re both sitting at the kitchen table, cups of coffee in front of them, looking like this is something they do every morning. Bucky wishes this is something they could put into their routine, make into a habit, but that’s not feasible. Becca won’t be around forever, Steve doesn’t live a domestic life, and Bucky doesn’t know what he wants for himself. 

“Hey sleepy head,” Becca teases, “want something to eat?”

Bucky gently squeezes Becca’s shoulder as he passes her to the fridge, “I can feed myself.”

Becca snorts, “I never offered to cook for you.”

He rolls his eyes, opting for a cup of coffee and granola bar, “What have y’all been up to?” He sits at the head of the table, between both Becca and Steve.

“Just catching up,” Steve answers, that genuine smile back.

Becca nods, “It’s been a long time, and there’s a lot to cover so we figured we’d get an early start.”

“Where are you now in your life history?”

“2000s-ish, before I woke up.”

“Ya know, when I was young and spry.” Becca mutters, sarcastic.

Bucky snorts, “Nobody at this table is young or spry.”

Becca slaps his shoulder with the back of her hand, “Shush, your skin is as smooth as a baby’s butt.”

“It’s my impeccable genes,” Bucky drawls, “sucks you didn’t get them.”

“Don’t want ‘em, rather live and die the natural way.” She raises her cup of coffee in a toast motion, taking a large sip of it. 

“Sometimes the unnatural way is funner,” Steve says, shrugging, “I was stuck in a glacier, and lived, it’s pretty amazing.”

Bucky grimaces at his version of the story, constantly shoved in and out of a cryofreeze against his will, so he says nothing instead. He takes a long drink out of his own mug, and tunes Becca and Steve out as they joke about the merits-- or lack of-- having superserum in their veins. 

He flicks his eyes between them, and lets himself smile a little into his mug. He doesn’t remember this, and doesn’t know if Steve and Becca have ever existed in the same room together, but it feels right. It’s like something’s clicked in him that this is where he needs to be right now. Sharing coffee with his little sister and Steve. 

Steve, with whom he doesn’t know where he stands but knows where he might want to. Becca, who’s on her way to death but still keeps a smile on her face. Then there’s him, who talks to an AI who he thinks of as a friend, and doesn’t exactly know who he is. Either way, he wouldn’t change where he is for anything. Maybe tweak some things along the path that got him here, but even then, if that would risk getting to see Steve and Becca laughing so hard they cry, it’s not worth it.

* * *

Weeks pass with their time together. Every day Bucky is just as grateful as the last that Becca’s still alive, and Steve decided to stick around. He can see the call Steve silences on his phone, and hears the late night conversations he has with Fury about not wanting to be in the field. He doesn’t feel guilty that Steve isn’t helping save the world, not because he’s greedy for Steve’s time, but because Steve’s been saving the world since the ‘40s and it’s about time he took a breather. 

They meet all of Becca’s grandkids one snowy afternoon, none of them are tiny like Bucky expected but twenty-something adults, some of which look older than Bucky. 

“So grandma really did know Captain America?” One of them asks, her eyebrow cocked in surprise. 

Steve chuckles, it the one he uses when he kisses babies and tells kids to brush their teeth before bed, “It’s less Becca knew me, and more I knew Becca.”

“So were you Captain America’s sidekick Uncle Bucky?” It’s one of the boys this time, he looks like he just stepped out of his teens. Tall and awkward, trying (and kinda failing) to grow out his facial hair.

Bucky snorts, rolling his eyes, “From what I can remember,” and that’s not much, “Steve was my sidekick until he decided to get shot up with artificial growth spurt.”

This time Steve’s laugh is genuine and full body, head thrown back one slapping his thigh, “Hey, _you_ said you were going to follow the little guy from Brooklyn.”

And he remembers that. A hazy bar, loud voices of people who were grateful to see another day. There was a red dress coupled with a tinge of sadness and jealousy, before reassuring words and hidden hand holding under the table. He remembers teasing about the old Captain America get up, before swearing to Steve that he’d follow him. He was due home, too. Discharge papers signed, bag packed for the next shipment out of there. He couldn’t leave Steve, and that was his Achilles Heel. Rather than going home he fell off a train and into HYDRA’s hands, rather than dying in peace he was forced to live out someone else’s dream. 

“Buck,” Steve’s voice is soft, and so close that Bucky can feel his breath on his neck, “are you okay?”

He takes in a deep breath and slowly exhales, blinking his eyes to clear away the haze. 

“Was it something I said?”

Everyone else is still talking and laughing around them, not paying attention to Bucky’s lapse of silence or how close Steve is to him. He tilts his head toward Steve’s, not turning all the way because then their lips would be too close and that’s something else Bucky still needs to work through. 

“No,” he replies quietly, “well, yes and no. It was something you said, but it was something I remembered.”

Steve licks his lips, obviously in a thinking motion and unaware what it’s doing to Bucky, “You don’t have to tell me, but what did you remember.”

“A bar, during the war, before we left on that mission. Did you know I was discharged?”

“No,” Steve shakes his head, and frowns so deeply Bucky can see it out of the corner of his eye, “you didn’t tell me that.”

“I don’t think I wanted to go home without you.” He’s not sure how much of that’s the truth, but it seemed like the right thing to say. 

“If you went home you would have lived a good life, Buck.” Steve’s voice is sad, defeated almost. 

“I know,” He does know. He wouldn’t have been tortured, he wouldn’t have countless people’s blood on his hands, he would have grown old and died the way it’s supposed to go, “but if I went home I wouldn’t be here now.” He wouldn’t have awoken in a time where technology is advancing everyday, where he can buy thirty pounds of sugar if he wanted, where gay marriage is legal and people are more accepting of it than they used to be. Yes, he went through hell and back to get here, but there’s nothing he can change about that now. If he only dwells on what could have happened, then he’ll never be able to see what can happen, and he’s accepted that. 

Steve sighs, “I know.” He repeats, “Just a hard pill to swallow, ya know?”

Bucky just nods in response. Nothing more needs to be said.

* * *

“It’s late and I’m old,” Becca sighs, pushing herself up from the couch, “I’m heading to bed.” She ruffles Bucky’s hair on her way past his armchair, “See you two in the morning.”

“Night,” Bucky and Steve say in unison, both of them watching Becca as she hobbles down the hall. 

Bucky can feel sleepiness wash over him. He could close his eyes, snuggle back into the couch, and fall into a deep sleep if he wanted to. He just might, too. His room is upstairs at the end of the hall, and while he may be some version of a supersoldier, he doesn’t feel like getting up from the couch.

“Hey, Buck?” Steve asks, a twinge of audible nerves in his voice.

Bucky doesn’t move his head, just rolls his eyes over to look at Steve on the couch across from him, “Yeah?”

“I need to tell you something,”

That wakes him up a bit.

“I think you have the right to know,” Steve continues, rambling, not looking at Bucky, “but I never said anything because I didn’t want to scare you, but I think you’re in a place now where you can handle this.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, stopping the rambling, “breathe, then tell me whatever’s on your mind.”

Steve does just that. He stops, takes in a deep breath, then slowly lets it out, probably giving himself a mental pep-talk. 

“Before,” Steve starts, “back in Brooklyn, before the war, before everything, you and I were..” He trails off, searching for the right words.

Bucky knows what he’s going to say. He’s heard it from Becca, he’s seen it in his memories, and he can feel it anytime he’s near Steve. They were in love, they were lovers, and that’s obviously something still eating at Steve, so he doesn’t say anything. Steve needs to get this off his chest, and Bucky wants to hear what he has to say. 

“You and I were together, _together_ together.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say that he knows, Becca spilled the beans and then his brain did the same, but Steve keeps talking. 

“You might not feel the same way anymore, and that’s fine, but I still love you.”

Bucky stops breathing.

“I love you, Buck, but if you want me to back off I will.”

Bucky must look like a deer in headlights. His eyes are wide, mouth hanging open, and for the second time in one night he stopped breathing. He thought he knew everything Steve was going to tell him, but evidently he was wrong. 

Steve takes Bucky’s gaped mouth and wide eyes as an answer and quickly pushes himself off the couch, “Sorry, Buck.” He says quickly before moving just as quickly out of the living room. 

Bucky waits until he hears Steve’s room door close before moving.

“JARVIS, what was that?”

“I believe that was Captain Rogers confessing his undying love to you.”

Bucky blinks, this is a good thing isn’t it? He knows he’s felt something warm and fuzzy for Steve, but held it back because he didn’t know if Steve felt the same. It’s good news that Steve still does love him, it is, but then why does he feel the need to run? Why does he want to pack his bags and take off in the Kia that’s been parked in front of Becca’s since the day he got here? 

He takes in a few breaths, trying to will his fight or flight system to calm down. Instead of bolting out the door, he wants to do is go up to Steve’s room and say those three little words back to him, but would he be rushing into it? Should he give Steve space to think? 

Instead of doing anything Bucky decides staying on the couch is the best option for him right now. Bucky will have time to talk to Steve tomorrow, or the day after that, so long as Steve isn’t the one to run out in the middle of the night. That’s not the kind of person Steve is, though. Steve likes to face his problems head on, or he used to. Either way, Bucky leans back into the couch and tries to relax. Better to talk to Steve tomorrow with a rested mind rather than on two hours of sleep.

* * *

Steve’s nowhere to be found the next day. It worries Bucky for a moment, the thought that Steve might not come back, but it subsides. Steve probably needs time to recollect his thoughts, and Bucky completely understands that. 

He and Becca spend the day together. Bucky doesn’t leave her side, not unless he has to, because there’s a feeling in his gut that he doesn’t have much time left with her. He doesn’t mention it, just exists with her, taking in everything about her and not taking any of these moments for granted. 

Eventually they end up on the porch outside. It’s snowing, too cold for Becca to be out here, but she insisted. So he wraps her in blankets and sweaters, and makes sure the chair she sits on isn’t wet with melted snow. 

“What’s on your mind, Bucky?” Becca asks, “I know something’s up, you’ve been off all day.”

He sighs, air puffing out in front of him, “Steve told me he loved me last night.” He doesn’t mention the gut feeling, and why he wants to be attached at her hip.

“... and?”

Bucky pushes his hair back with his metal hand, looking over at Becca, “And I didn’t say it back.”

She frowns, pulling the blanket tighter around her body, “Why?”

He shrugs, silent for a moment, “I don’t know. Fear, I guess.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Losing myself,” he pauses, “losing _him_.”

She sighs, turning to face him, “Look Buck, a living in fear is no way to live. Are you happy?”

He nods.

“Does he help make you happy?”

“I think so.” 

He thinks about every moment he’s spent with Steve, every laugh and smile they’ve shared recently. Then he thinks about before, when they were young and the war hadn’t happened yet. He doesn’t remember much, but besides their constant struggle for money, he remembers feeling joy with Steve that he didn’t feel elsewhere. Steve makes his heart warm, makes him feel like he’s not the broken killer most people think he is. Before he wanted to bolt every time he saw Steve, but because he thought Steve had expectations for him that don’t actually exist. Now he wants to soak up all the warmth that seems to radiate off Steve, he wants to be next to Steve no matter if they’re talking or just sitting in silence. It’s a stark difference than before, but one he’s worked towards.

“Then you don’t need to tell him you love him immediately, you just gotta let him know you feel something so you don’t lose him.”

“But I want to tell him,” Bucky says honestly, “I want him to know that I feel the same way, I was just too surprised to say it back.”

Becca rolls her eyes, “Then stop being an idiot and tell him, God knows how long he’s been waiting for you.”

“I will,” he decides, “tomorrow.”

Becca grins, “Good, all I want is for you to be happy.”

He can’t help but smile back at her grin, “I know.”

* * *

She passes in the middle of the night. 

Snow is falling softly outside, the fireplace crackling, and Becca’s body is still and cold on her bed. 

Bucky doesn’t know what to do other than kneel at the side of her bed, and lay his head in her lap. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t scream, he just rests his head there and accepts the hand Steve places between his shoulders. 

He knew this was coming. Becca talked about it herself a few times, and Rachel told him once in passing that she thought Becca was waiting for him to come back home before she finally let herself rest. He knew it was coming since the day he set foot on her property and accepted that he would have to deal with the loss of a loved one. 

Just because he knew it was coming doesn’t mean he was exactly prepared for it.

Bucky doesn’t know how long passes before he lifts his head and rises from the floor. He presses a kiss to her forehead, pausing for a moment to thank her for the time he was able to spend with her in this life, before leaving her room. He can hear Steve following him silently, their feet making the wooden floors beneath them creak. 

He stops when he sees Rachel in the kitchen. Her eyes are red and puffy, but instead of all encompassing sorrow he thinks one would feel after their mother passes she looks at peace. 

“This was a long time coming,” She explains, his thoughts obviously written across his face, “I’m glad she’s finally at rest now.”

He nods, because doesn’t know what to do. Rachel is his niece, and while she’s lived more days than he has, and is older then him physically, he feels like he should be comforting her.

“Are the kids coming?” He asks instead, motioning down to the phone next to her.

“Yeah,” She sniffs, rubbing both of her eyes, “I just called them, so they’ll be here in a couple hours.”

He nods again, still unsure what to do. 

“Rachel,” Steve pipes in, stepping around Bucky to stand near Rachel, “if you don’t mind, me and Buck are going to head out for some air. Is your husband on the way?”

She nods, “Down the street, he’ll be here soon.” 

“And the paramedics?”

“On their way as well,” She motions to the front of the house with her head, “Don’t feel like you need to stay, I know this can be heavy.”

Steve gives her a small smile, one that always breaks Bucky’s heart, and squeezes the side of her arm gently, “Call if you need us.”

They leave the kitchen quietly, exiting the house the same way. Dawn is only just breaking through the horizon, and the snow is still falling steadily. Everything feels slow, and somber. Bucky knows it’s because he just lost his little sister and hasn’t processed it yet, but he also wants to believe the earth is saddened it lost someone like Becca. 

Instead of heading to the car Bucky turns down the street. He can hear Steve following him by the crunch of his boots in the snow, and slows down a step for him to catch up. They walk shoulder to shoulder along the side of the road. Occasionally a car will pass them, but for the most part it’s just them walking in silence. 

Eventually they get to the hill Bucky found during the first week or two he was here. It’s draped in snow but that doesn’t stop him from laying down at the top, nor does it stop Steve. With all the serum in their veins it’s not like they can feel the chill anyways.

In a spur of the moment decision Bucky twines the fingers of his left hand with Steve’s. He can hear the hitch in Steve’s breath, and see the steady stream of condensation exhaled out of the corner of his eye. 

“You told me you loved me,” Bucky says into the quiet, referring to the conversation they had a week ago. 

“Always have and I always will.” Steve replies, his voice so confident it makes Bucky want to run. 

He takes in a slow breath, still staring at the purpling sky, “I never said it back, and it wasn’t because I didn’t want to, but because I was afraid.” Bucky rolls to his side, to face Steve, their hands are still laced between them and it’s an awkward position for his arm but he wouldn’t change it for anything. 

“Becca told me weeks ago that her dying wish was that I be happy, and I think-” he pauses to swallow a lump in his throat as he thinks about Becca in her long dresses, with her huge cup of black coffee, and take no shit attitude, “-I think you’re a part of that happiness.”

Weeks of being apart from Steve, weeks of talking to Becca about his old self, weeks of thinking about the fact that Steve was the lover he left behind, gave him some insight. At first it manifested in fear that he could never be who Steve wanted, but when Becca told him she wanted to see Steve before she passed on, and Steve actually came it was a completely different. 

Steve was open about missing Bucky, and very clear that he didn’t expect Bucky to be anyone other than the person Bucky wanted to be. In that moment it was like all his Steve-related fears disintegrated, and he was finally able to just _be_.

“I’m glad,” Steve smiles, cupping the side of Bucky’s face with his free hand, “but you’re grieving, Buck. Your sister just passed, and your emotions are everywhere. I don’t doubt that’s what you want, and it’s definitely what I want, but I’m not going to hold it to you.”

Bucky sighs, understanding, “I mean it.” He says, pushing all his emotions for Steve in those three words, “I really do mean it.”

“I know.” Steve strokes his cheek bone with his thumb, and gives him a small smile, “I know you do.”

* * *

The funeral small, quaint. She’s buried next her to late husband, in the same cemetery as their parents. 

Bucky takes a moment to kneel at his parents grave, hand resting on their stone, head bowed. He gives them a few moments of his thoughts, before standing. 

“I should go find Ma,” Steve says quietly, pressing his fingers to the stone, “Never took a moment for myself when I woke up, but maybe I should now.”

Bucky presses his shoulder against Steve’s, “I don’t want to go back. To Manhattan. To live, I mean.”

Steve presses back, and laces their fingers together, “Manhattan was never my home, it was just convenient.”

“I don’t want to go back to Brooklyn, either.” Brooklyn is the place he sees in his dreams, the place that comes to him in memories, but it’s also the place where his old self used to be. He’s not that Bucky anymore, and he doesn’t want to be, _Steve_ doesn’t want him to be.

“Brooklyn isn’t home, not anymore,” Steve sighs, “I’ve been lost for awhile, and I didn’t find myself went back there.”

Bucky looks over to Steve, taking in the profile of his face, “If it helps, we can be lost together.”

A smile stretches across Steve’s lips, he looks down at Bucky and presses a gentle kiss to his lips, “Let’s be lost together.”

Bucky doesn’t know what exactly is going to happen to them. He doesn’t know where they’ll be in a couple months, or years from now, but in this moment they share some semblance of happiness. They share some type of love that Bucky can’t describe with words, but with the warm feeling he gets in his chest. Their relationship is still fresh, but it’s not fragile. They can deal with nightmares that end in screams, and bouts of depression that don’t pass for days, they know how to handle each other. But does he know where any of this is going to go? No, no he doesn’t.

Right now they’re both a little lost, both a little broken, and maybe exactly what each other needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler: Becca dies of old age and happiness. It's not graphic, at all, the line is "She passes in the middle of the night."
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://sorrowingsoldier.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Master Post](http://sorrowingsoldier.tumblr.com/post/174754720800/if-destiny-is-kind-a-capreversebb-story-art-by)


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